Aftermath: This Day and Forever Afterward
by Ariel D
Summary: Many years after ROTP, Entreri still lives due to the shade life force. Has Jarlaxle finally proven to be his friend, especially when Entreri contracts a deadly plague? Please read author's note. Finale of the Aftermath series. Sticky edges.
1. Chapter 1

**This Day and Forever Afterward**

By Ariel

_Description: In 1669 D.R.—300 years after he faced his past in Memnon—Entreri still lives due to several unintentional infusions of shade life force. In all this time, has Jarlaxle truly proven to be his friend, especially when Entreri contracts a deadly plague created through magic-induced germ warfare? Fits on the "The Day After" timeline. Minor spoilers for RotP. Written for those who like fuzzy friendship stories. _

Disclaimer: Artemis Entreri and all other recognizable characters belong to R.A. Salvatore and Wizards of the Coast. No challenge to the copyright is intended or should be inferred. The following story is just for the amusement of the fans and will never make any profit.

A/N: **300 years have passed! The characters have grown, aged, and changed. Take anything that seems OOC with a grain of salt; there is not a person alive who can even live 3 years without changing. :) **Horror of all horrors, there's a touch of sap here, I think. Also, this is another case of my writing in a short story what should really be a novel-length affair. Please be patient with me; it's the best I can do within my time constraints.

Despite my dissatisfaction with several aspects of RotP, RAS clearly illustrated through the novel itself and a few comments to fans afterward that Jarlaxle felt genuine feelings of friendship for Entreri—most notably by going back and rescuing him from Gareth. This adds special significance to my story, but I would have written it either way. This is fanfic, after all. The sky is the limit.

* * *

**Chapter One**

1669 D.R.

Artemis Entreri slipped from shadow to shadow, winding his way through dusty streets and crooked alleys that had changed dozens of times over 300 years, but never had they become unknown to him. The sun set upon Calimport, lowering the suffering city into darkness and creating black monoliths of the wooden docking sheds. The bustle of the day died into silence broken only by the wails of women crying over the bodies of husbands and children struck down by the Red Plague, the epidemic that had already killed thousands across Faerun.

The man who had long ago been an assassin set aside those thoughts for now, however, and allowed himself to feel the coolness of the billowing shadows, to feel their essence slipping like cold liquid silver through his veins. His numerous fights with the Netherese, which had often been won by his vampiric blade, had made him nearly one with the soul of the night, and he used his affinity to ease through the shed doorway and into a corner.

His would-be assassin stood boldly in the center of the shed, facing the door through which Artemis had just slipped. No human eye could detect the ex-assassin, he knew, since his role in fighting the return of the Netherese had left him almost half-shade. Artemis had time, then, to study the thin young man who meant to kill him. It was strange for Artemis to see in the child before him what he had once been: a young man, perhaps fifteen years in age, with the brown coloring and black hair of a Calishite. The boy continuously flexed his hands into a fist and then relaxed them, and his entire approach to the assassination was more like a duel. Such an amateur. Even after 300 years, Artemis remembered all the tricks of his one-time trade—sometimes he still had to use them.

From the opposite end of the room, a shimmer of movement caught Artemis's eye. Again, no normal human eye could detect it, but to the shade-infused human, the dark hole that formed in the wall was obvious, as was the drow who stepped through: Jarlaxle, co-leader of Bregan D'aerthe of the Underdark and ruler of Bregan T'rathe on the surface.

Artemis smiled to himself, for although he'd been expecting the drow's assistance, he hadn't been expecting the drow's newest outfit: modern and stylish, with its long golden coat and crimson waistcoat and breeches, the outfit was completed by black, shinny boots and a floppy crimson hat with a golden feather. Outrageous as always. It was a wonder the boy assassin didn't see the atrocity from the corner of his vision.

But before the boy did notice the drow, Artemis stepped into the light. "Why must I kill you?" he asked bluntly. He'd grown weary of the act of murder long ago, even when it was a common necessity. "What offense have I committed against you or your master that warrants my death?"

The boy jerked in shock at Artemis's sudden appearance, and the ex-assassin noticed how red and splotchy his complexion was. If the killer was that easily scared, he wasn't cut out for his occupation. Unless his complexion was a sign that he was infected with the Red Plague, in which case . . .

"My employer is one of the few Netherese that you and your allies didn't slaughter," the boy said, his voice clipped. "Azurthe Tyrune. Perhaps you recall the name?"

"Indeed I do." If Artemis had learned one thing during his unnaturally long life, it was that history never died. Actions great—or even small—could set events into motion that would echo throughout all time. The destruction of the Netherese Empire was one of them—but assassins sought him for more reasons than that. They targeted Artemis because of his connections with the government, because of his finesse in information gathering, and because of his position as pasha of a shipping guild. There was little in Calimport he didn't influence or own, and not everyone appreciated it.

The boy drew his falchion. "Then prepare to pay for your blasphemy." All around the assassin, blue screens formed, dimensional doorways that admitted a dozen further warriors.

"Hardly a fair fight," Artemis remarked dryly.

"All the world knows your reputation, and we also know the drow is always at your side," the boy replied without ever indicating he'd seen Jarlaxle's presence. "The two of you may be older than time, but to quote common wisdom, 'Only a fool underestimates Artemis Entreri and Jarlaxle Bregan.'"

Artemis bowed his head in acknowledgement and then drew Charon's Claw—the sword he'd carried all these centuries as a reminder of whom he'd been and never wanted to be again. Behind the soldiers, Jarlaxle drew a sapphire-tipped wand. It was a dance between Artemis and the drow, a waltz of magic and metal, perfected over the centuries until no enemy could hope to defeat them.

The boy assassin charged Artemis as though he had to kill him in one swing, slicing at him from all sides: a slash at each of Artemis's shoulders, followed by a slash at each of his knees, then a straight stab at his heart. Swordsmanship was something Artemis had never tired of—nor ever stopped needing—so he blocked each swipe with his red blade. He had retired the vampiric dagger, disgusted by its accumulated effect upon him and the utter destruction it brought, but he didn't need two blades to defeat this boy.

Even from across the room, Artemis saw Jarlaxle use his wand to unleash a small tornado of ice and snow upon four of their attackers, freezing them into scream-faced statues, while simultaneously drawing an emerald-tipped wand and spraying three others with acid. The acrid smell of burnt flesh and hair permeated the air, and the five remaining men circled the drow carefully.

Satisfied concerning his friend's safety, Artemis refocused upon the boy as he launched his second barrage, bringing his sword overhead and down in a death arc. Upon Artemis's block, the boy retracted his blade and swung at his shoulder again before snapping the blade low and then straight up in an attempt to gash through his groin. Artemis blocked all three strikes successfully, but took a small tear in his pants on the last parry.

"You're getting slow in your unnaturally old age," the boy snickered breathlessly.

"And you're ready to faint on your feet," Artemis replied, unconcerned with the boy's observation. He had long ago determined that he'd die on his feet, engaged in battle. The boy, though, looked ready to die without the benefit of a sword wound. Again, Artemis wondered if the boy were infected with the Plague.

The boy's only answer was to draw a dagger and charge Artemis once again, first with a feint before dropping into a spin with both his blades. Artemis snatched one of his nonmagical daggers from a thigh sheath and met the attack blade-by-blade. By far more experienced and effectual, despite being over 340 years old, Artemis knocked aside the boy's sword and looped his dagger hand over the boy's other arm, trapping his elbow before stabbing the dagger home. The boy gasped, then coughed violently and spat blood in Artemis's face. The ex-assassin wiped it away in disgust.

Across the room, Jarlaxle now had a collection of dagger-ridden corpses about his feet. Straightening himself slowly, the old drow rolled his shoulders back as though popping his vertebrae. He strolled over to Artemis, smiling all the way.

"Nothing like a good fight to remind me of our golden days," the drow said, winking.

"I told you not to joke like that," Artemis replied.

"We have never lost yet," Jarlaxle said, and although his movements were a touch stiff, his eyes sparkled.

"Well, I wasn't sure you'd come to my aid this time," Artemis quipped, unable to pass up a chance to goad the drow.

Jarlaxle immediately frowned. "And I thought I told you not to joke like that."

Artemis grinned and squeezed his shoulder before turning their attention toward the collection of corpses. "A small force for such a seemingly important act of vengeance."

The drow nodded. "Yes. I suspect a secondary motive or contingency plan." He pointed at the red splotches decorating the dying boy's face. "Do you think that perhaps . . .?"

The boy coughed again and opened his eyes a slit. "Not 'perhaps.' Definitely. My master and I have won. Artemis Entreri, I've infected you with the Red Death. You have about a tenday to live." He started to laugh, but choked and started coughing instead.

Jarlaxle stood motionless for a moment, then snapped a dagger straight into the boy's heart. "Bastard!"

A seeping coldness traced through Entreri's veins, and for a moment he was far away, mentally reliving other moments in time: his near death at Mirthal Hall almost 310 years earlier; his potential death at King Gareth's hands 300 years ago; his heart literally stopping during a battle in the Netherese Wars 250 years before; his bleeding out after being attacked by two chimera . . .

A half dozen moments out of a thousand where he'd nearly died, and most all of them during fights, with his sword in hand. Not in a sick bed.

When Artemis neither moved nor spoke, Jarlaxle grabbed him by both shoulders. "Artemis! You will survive. Artemis!" He shook him slightly. "Talk to me."

The ex-assassin looked at Jarlaxle, gazing directly into both his crimson eyes since he no longer wore an eye patch, and realized that in every near-death experience he'd recalled there had been one common denominator. Jarlaxle had always been there to help him, to save him. Whether he'd asked for help or not, wanted to be helped or not, Jarlaxle had been increasingly steadfast in staying by his side and saving his life.

"I know you will do your best," Artemis said. "But this is the Red Death."

Jarlaxle squeezed his shoulders—a sign of affection Artemis had finally grown used to and had even learned to return. "No. I will save you! I refuse to let you die this way."

But Artemis just stared at the corpse of the plague-ridden boy.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to anyone who reads and reviews! I'll be back in a few days with chapter 2, which has sticky edges thanks to my friendship-story obsession._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Prepare thyself. I warned you about the character projection toward the decidedly friendly and the sticky edges, so don't bother with the OOC complaints. Like I said, we're talking a 300 year projection into the future, and this is written specifically for those of us who feel fuzzy when reading friendship stories._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Artemis tried to open his eyes, to force his groggy mind awake even if it meant more coughing spells. However, the dream he'd been having wouldn't release him—a dream with blurry images of a fight 300 years ago, of the day he'd killed the priest who had sired him, and of the day he'd thrown Jarlaxle out of his life, or rather had tried to. For a moment, he felt the anger of that moment and the frustration of the following months when Jarlaxle had repeatedly contacted him; however, the feelings were followed by a sense of loss that the events could not account for.

Artemis struggled in his sleep, trying once again to regain consciousness, but the dream merely shifted. Now he was in the Netherese Wars, which had occurred some fifty years later, and Jarlaxle was leaning down through the horizon of a dimensional portal, extending his hand to Artemis, who lay wounded on a cliff below:

_"Just grab my hand," Jarlaxle yelled. "I can—" _

"No!" Artemis called back. "You won't reach me in time, and then that portal will slice you in half!"

"I am not leaving you!"

I am not leaving you.

With the help of the words that had shocked him so much that long ago day, Artemis shook himself awake and gazed up at Jarlaxle, who had held his hand all afternoon—just as he had the day before—never loosening his grip. His crimson eyes had never left Artemis's face, even when he coughed up blood. The drow sat, the permanent fixture of his bed chamber, taking both meals and Reverie in that gold velvet wingback he'd brought just for the occasion. An extravagant gesture: so like him, so familiar. And to Artemis, so comforting—although he wouldn't admit it.

For the first three days, Jarlaxle had simply visited for an hour or two, cheerfully reporting on the attempts of his priests, doctors, and wizards to find an antidote. He'd walked about the room, throwing open windows and encouraging Artemis to have hope. "I have more resources than anyone in Toril," he'd said. "My people will find a cure!"

The following three days had become filled with bitter-smelling medicines like rotten lemons and Jarlaxle pacing the floor by his bed or repeatedly adjusting his coat or hat. "By the end of the day the clerics, at least, should have something," he'd said over and over. "The priests who created this plague cannot have constructed it so well that no other god could find a solution."

However, on the seventh day the wingback chair had appeared, and since then the drow had hovered at his side, as though he were afraid of leaving him.

"Jarlaxle," Artemis whispered. Between his illness, the rainy day, and the red brocade draperies drawn across the windows, he could barely see the drow, but his grip on his hand told him all he needed to know.

"Do not speak," Jarlaxle said immediately. A flash of white in the darkness told Artemis he'd smiled. "I expect you to be stubborn, but for my sake, try to follow the doctors' orders."

"You need to genuinely rest," he replied.

"Drow are more resilient," he quipped, humor and charm his defense, even now.

"You need a bath," Artemis rasped, returning his quip.

"I bathe while the nurses bathe you." He'd grown more serious and squeezed his hand.

"Are you sure?" Artemis said, trying to lighten the mood by teasing him again. Centuries ago, the drow's insufferable sense of humor had rubbed off on him, and Artemis hated to see him grim. At what point had he begun to care so? The moment had been lost in history. "I think you smell—" He choked before he could finish the sentence, setting off a dreaded coughing spell. He jerked up halfway in his four-poster, hacking as though he'd vomit.

Jarlaxle tried to press Artemis back down on the bed, handing him a white handkerchief to cough into. His stomach muscles ached from the endless spells, his throat ripped into a scorching burn. Bright red splotches appeared on the cloth, signaling the truth of his condition. Artemis gasped, a whistling in his throat, trying to get air past the coughing. Jarlaxle waited patiently, wiping his sweating brow with one of his more colorful handkerchiefs.

When the fit had passed, Artemis collapsed onto the mattress, overcome with exhaustion. "Please leave," he whispered for the hundredth time in the past tenday, his simple request betraying the thoughts behind the words. _I don't want you infected, and I don't want you to see me this way._

The drow wiped Artemis's forehead once again, then rested his hand there briefly. "I have magical protection," he replied, obviously knowing his friend well enough to understand the man's unspoken concerns.

"Is it enough?" Artemis rasped. "You are ancient now." He gave him a small smile, then gestured with one finger at the brooch Jarlaxle wore at his neck—the brooch he'd stolen from the Archmage of Menzoberranzan when he'd died. "Magic alone keeps you handsome."

"Magic alone has made you look like a corpse for 300 years," Jarlaxle replied with an equally small smile. "But it's made you look like a young corpse and move like a thirty-year-old, and it will save your life now."

Artemis snorted. "Even after all the shades I had to fight and kill, I don't have enough of their life force to save me." He stopped, catching his breath. "The scholars finally do something worthwhile and discover the existence of germs, and—"

"—and then the priests of Velsharoon make a weapon of it," Jarlaxle finished for him. He took his hand again. "I feel certain that my wizards, priests, and doctors are close to a breakthrough on the antidote. Please, hang on."

Artemis exhaled heavily. Jarlaxle rarely spoke to him so openly, rarely showed him such affection. Always with him, it was riddles and jokes, extravagant plans and unnecessary risks. The drow's simple, honest plea told the man more about his condition than any doctor's prognosis or coughing spell. He was going to die, probably within the hour. However, because his dreams had reminded him of the past, there was one thing he wanted to say first.

"I kicked you out of my life once," Artemis began, his voice scratchy from all the coughing. "In Memnon all those years ago, I told you goodbye, to fare well or fare ill. At that moment you deserved it, but I wanted to say—"

Jarlaxle shook his head. "You kicked me out because I pushed too hard—or perhaps I should say I was too manipulative in my approach. It worked out for the best, though. Do not dredge it up now." He laid his free hand on his shoulder. "With some effort, we worked through it. That was for the best as well."

Artemis smiled faintly. He would have never dreamed that a drow—especially this drow—would have proven to be his friend. What an adventure it had been, he thought, their arriving at such a point. It was worth recording for the sake of history, if he cared about such things.

"Thank you," Artemis said suddenly, his own honest emotion scaring him. He had stood by Jarlaxle's side through a thousand assured deaths, but the mere thought of telling the drow that he cared for him terrified the man more than Shades, demons, and dragons combined.

Jarlaxle smiled again, that flash of white teeth so stark in his ebony face. How Artemis would miss that smile, those quirky clothes that changed in style but never in bad taste!

"You're welcome," Jarlaxle said, and Artemis knew he had understood his message. "But don't you dare die yet. My sources tell me that from the ashes of the Zhentarim is rising a mercenary guild worse than anything you saw in Menzoberranzan so long ago. I need you at my side; the world is changing yet again. Not to mention there are some priests we have to punish for your illness—for this entire Plague."

So many exploits, past and future, wrapped into a single sentence. Artemis tried to grin.

Jarlaxle leaned forward, squeezing his hand hard. "I finally found my freedom," he whispered harshly, his tone revealing that he found the words difficult. "I found it by your side. Don't you dare leave me now."

Artemis did smile then, appreciating the drow's bald honesty. "Neither of us possesses enough magic to live forever."

He saw it then—a telltale glimmer in the drow's eyes that vanished as soon as it appeared. "Don't live for forever. Live for tomorrow. I will see you through this."

Artemis nodded once. Trust and love were curious things, like faith and hope, and over the years he had learned to give himself to them. "You haven't failed me for many centuries." He relaxed into the mattress and let himself drift off to sleep.

Knowing a drow kept vigil over his bed.

* * *

Artemis Entreri sat on his veranda, watching a schooner set sail from the dock. Gazing at the early morning sun reflecting off the ocean and listening to the waves had become a pastime of his about fifty years earlier; they instilled a sense of peace in him. To be out on the veranda, breathing fresh air after spending two full tendays in bed, was enough of a blessing to last him a hundred lifetimes. He had thought he'd die in that sickroom, surrounded by bitter-smelling vials and hushed conversations between nurses and priests. 

The veranda doors swung open, and Jarlaxle strolled out, his crimson hat sitting at an angle on his head. The drow held a tall glass filled with some fancy liquor concoction which smelled to Artemis like grapefruit juice and orange juice mixed with Firewine. That drow was ever experimenting with drinks, food, clothing, and who knew what else. He sat beside his friend on the wooden bench, took a sip of his drink, and smiled.

"I told you I would see you through it," he said, sharing a private grin that belonged to only them.

Artemis snorted. "Arrogant drow."

"Stubborn human."

Artemis shook his head, starting to speak of the rare but heartfelt words Jarlaxle had uttered during his illness, but he found himself unable to verbalize the bond that had cemented their friendship. Quickly shifting topics, he began instead to mention the business of distributing the new-found cure to the Red Plague. However, he realized that sometimes Jarlaxle didn't come to do business, didn't want to chatter—that sometimes, Jarlaxle merely wanted to be with his one and only trusted _abbil._ So Artemis simply smiled.

The friends relaxed, shoulder-to-shoulder, and watched the sun rise. Even though they'd lived beyond their time, there would be time still, adventures still. Time enough and adventures enough to die on their feet, swords in hand.

They wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to Darkhelmet and Chi for beta reading. _

Like I said at the beginning, I've managed to write another short story that could be a novel-length affair. Like with "The Day After," I might come back at a later date and expand this. For now though, please simply enjoy it as it is—even if it is a touch sticky around the edges from a spattering of sap.


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